Tangibly, it’s not familiar.
When would I ever have bothered to note the texture of my mother’s address book – other than now that she no longer picks it up to add or amend an entry?
But I appreciate its thingness, the flimsy feel of fabric-covered cardboard, the fact that she didn’t store her addresses digitally on a machine that would be generic and plasticky.
What’s most touching in this realm of touch is that she touched it.
Invisibly, this book carries Mama’s fingerprints. They mark it everywhere, on the cover and every single page from A to Z.
Yes, even on the Z page. It was her overflow page from the Ws of our family name where my brother’s and my own changing addresses over the years clog the pages – and go to show how she always kept abreast of us. Our moves, big and small.
Strange making these now without her taking note.